


The Will That Holds Him There

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [121]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two aging superheroes, settin' on a porch swing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Will That Holds Him There

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

It was warm for November, and the air was decadent with the perfume of late roses. Out on the front porch of 1630 Revello Drive, Spike lounged in the wheelchair, long-lashed eyelids drooping, fingers laced across his compact little belly. The breeze ruffled his greying curls. A passer-by would never have taken him for a dangerous creature of the night, just a small, wiry man of indeterminate age, basking in the sun.

Forty years since the Mohra Incident, and it still set off the _Mission:Impossible_ theme music in the back of Buffy's head to see him like that, counting down the seconds till he burst into flame. At least it was a lot more seconds now. Vampires got tougher with age, and Spike's human and demon aspects were aging in tandem, packing centuries, she guessed, into a human lifespan. Result, these days her vampire could laze in the sunshine for fifteen, almost twenty minutes, before the telltale wisps of smoke started rising.

Two seconds before his hair started to sizzle, he'd wheel himself back into the shade. Spike knew his limits as well as she did. He just delighted in pushing them, and under the circumstances she didn't have the heart to deny him that pleasure, no matter how itchy it made her. But that didn't mean she couldn't _hint_.

"Hey, old man," she said, sauntering out onto the porch. She perched demurely on the swing, and patted the safely-shaded cushion beside her with a suggestive pout. "Wanna give the neighbors a thrill?"

Spike opened his eyes, with a look that said he knew exactly what she was up to and was going to humor her anyway. He hitched himself out of his slouch and spun the wheelchair around with expert flair. "Now, now, pet, we're long past shocking the neighbors." He aligned the chair with the swing-seat and levered himself up. "They put up that fence last summer."

He reached across and grabbed the support bar of the swing, all muscular and flexy, pulling himself up and over the arm of the chair. His legs held his weight for only a moment, but they held. Buffy restrained herself from asking if he wanted help; the last two months had been like living with a cantankerous three-year-old whose continual refrain was _"No! I want to do it myself!"_ Spike lowered himself into the seat beside her with a grimace. "Bloody hell, I'm sore. Think I overdid the workout this morning."

Buffy administered a remonstrative elbow-jab. "You overdo it every morning. You're not going to heal any faster by wearing yourself out."

"Yeh, yeh, act my age, take it slow," he grumbled. "I am acting my sodding age. Got a limited number of years left, and I don't want to spend 'em on my arse." A frustrated growl escaped him. "Was already walking on my own by now, first time around."

That was the real reason he refused help - to accept it would be to admit that this might not be a temporary thing, that maybe the recuperative powers of a seventy-year-old mortal vampire, however impressive when compared to human average, weren't up to healing the kind of damage that his younger, undead self had shaken off in a couple of months. Spike could wiggle his toes, and yesterday he'd even managed a few steps with the help of crutches. By any objective standard he was healing phenomenally well, but Spike had never been very objective.

Buffy trailed a finger along the slope of his shoulder and shifted to face him, flinging one leg across his lap and settling astride his thighs - a little harder on the knees than it used to be, but the view was worth it. "Moron. I only dropped a church on you. Wesley dropped a whole mountain."

"There's that," Spike conceded, eyes crinkling with amusement. He gazed up at her fondly, his hand idly caressing the curve of her hip. "You told me once, all those years ago, that time you were dead... you said you remembered feeling finished. Never got the appeal, myself. Couldn't imagine being finished, ever. Too much to do, too much to see. But up there on that mountain..." His eyes were distant, blue and depthless as the sky overhead. "I knew I was dying, and it was all right. I felt... like you said. Complete."

She didn't know what to say to that. That long-ago memory wasn't her Heaven anymore. So she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. "I'll have words with the inconsiderate bitch who rescued you if you want."

"Queen C won't lend you her helicopter again if you keep talking about her like - oi!" Spike captured her roving hands and they wrestled for a second, laughing. "I'll never be less 'n grateful for more time in your company, love. But I always featured myself going out fighting. Not - " His jaw clenched. "Not like this."

That had always been one of the sticking points in their relationship - Spike wanted to go out with his boots on, and all she'd ever hoped for was to make sure the boots she went out in were this year's style. "The whole point of being retired is that we don't have to fight any more."

Spike shifted restlessly beneath her. "Suppose so. Just don't like feeling useless."

"You are the opposite of useless. Besides," she said, "There's more than one way to fight. Like for instance, you could go into politics." She kissed him, because kissing? Hard to misinterpret. "Or you could just turn the wheelchair into a ninja death machine."

He chuckled and gathered her closer. "I like the way you think, Slayer."

Some things just got better with age, and Spike's kissing technique was right up there with Napoleon brandy. His hand crept up beneath her skirt, clever fingers warm from the sun. Stroking, teasing, taking it slow. Release came soft and warm and sudden, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks and barely-there gasp, suffusing her body like sunlight. If the neighbors weren't thrilled, they were awfully hard to please.

"You good, love?" Spike inquired, just the hint of an anxious note in his voice. He'd never been stupid enough to launch into the self-pitying speech about how she could never be satisfied with half a man, because duh, Spike knew more ways to get a woman off than there were women, practically. But he was still possessed of XY chromosomes and therefore placed unreasonable emphasis on the importance of the Almighty Penis. Which there was no question she was going to _miss,_ if it turned out Spike had healed as much as he was going to, but please.

"Good? I am fantastic." Buffy snuggled down on top of him, agreeably melty. The fitness fanatic and the gourmand having come to an amicable detente over the last few years, Spike's tummy made a very inviting mattress these days, all cushy padding on top and firm support underneath. She leaned in and suckled at his earlobe, to be rewarded with a low, shivering growl. Oh, he liked that. Slip down to torment the strong cords of his neck, nibble on his Adam's apple, with just the combination of lick and bite that he liked best, and maybe play with his nipples a little, and thank God Spike was basically just one big erogenous zone, because if only half of him could feel what she was doing, she wanted that half to feel _really_ good.

His growl settled into a happy-chainsaw rumble, and a laugh bubbled up inside her like champagne. "What's so funny?" Spike mumbled into her hair.

"When you purr that hard, you jiggle."

"Disrespectful wench." He patted his stomach complacently. "That's evidence of my success as a dangerous predator, that is."

Buffy smirked. "Good thing we creaky old Slayers prefer our vampires nicely upholstered."

"Works out, then." He grinned and gave her a smack on the rump. "I've always preferred my Slayers nicely upholstered."

Daylight was less forgiving than candles and shadows. The chiseled lines of his face were deeper every day, and the thick, unruly curls were more grey now than brown. She'd been ready to face a future where she grew old and he didn't, once. She still thought - hoped - they could have made it that way, too, but a small selfish part of her was glad they didn't have to. Because then she'd never have gotten to see him like this. He wasn't young any longer, but he was still so beautiful, in the way that things you'd almost lost, that you might still lose, were beautiful. And perhaps, from the tenderness in his gaze, in his eyes she was not-young but still beautiful, too.

"Need any help getting back inside?" she asked, stifling a smile.

His eyes narrowed. "Fetch me those crutches," said Spike. "I can do it myself."

No, her vampire wasn't finished. Not by a long shot.

**END**


End file.
